


and you taste like danger but i feel so safe in your arms

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2011/2012 (UAN Era), Angst, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Up All Night Tour, because of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:55:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22052887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Four times Louis and Harry don't talk about it and one time they (sort of) do.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 93





	and you taste like danger but i feel so safe in your arms

**Author's Note:**

> kind of a PWP with dashes of angst and humour? maybe...
> 
> HELLO to anyone deciding to read this... this is the first Larry fic i've written since i wrote one atrocious kink fic in 2013 (long since orphaned, thank god). i didn't think they would be able to draw me in again (i was 13 when i started larrie-ing and then subsequently went into larrie-tirement 2015-abouts) but now, suddenly, as i'm about to graduate uni, 'come so far from princess park' (wtf mate) and golden/sunflower vol. 6/fine line all screaming LEWIS are sucking me back into the black hole, so here i am with some 2011/2012 nostalgia fic because... babies. :( :) :(
> 
> also i apologise for any mixups with who lives where and when because honestly, who could keep track of that in 2012 when harry was supposedly 'homeless' so for the sake of this story... they kept the princess park flat until the later half of 2012. :)
> 
> title from "homegirl" by king princess ♥
> 
> disclaimer: this is complete fiction + i most certainly do not own 1d or the artists that compose(d) it.

_April 2011_

The penthouse is sterile in its grandiosity, yet it’s furnished to a tee, sequined throw blankets and bedside fucking chandeliers and all. Louis feels like a guest in someone’s home, but the keys are in his hand, leaving their dirty, metallic smell on his fingertips, and Harry’s at his side — he’s just dropped his leather duffel to the floor and it’d echoed. _Echoed_. Louis hums, twirls the key around his finger, and peers backward over his shoulder at Harry. “Might you be fancying some champagne, _Monsieur Styles?_ ”

Harry’s answering smile is dimple-creased and he lets a huff of a laugh out his nose.

Much to Louis’ — well, not disbelief, per se, because apparently this is his life now — they don’t have to go out for the champagne, because there’s a gift basket on the kitchen counter, Dom Pérignon and green pears and all. A kitchen counter, by the way, across which Louis swears he could cross-country ski, it’s just that long… and shiny and _new_ , and begging to be scratched up. He tells Harry so, and Harry gasps with the appropriate drama and sprawls his upper body protectively across the granite. When Louis says, “D’you think it was on this very counter that Ashley Cole cheated on Cheryl?”, Harry’s nose scrunches and he withdraws… slowly. His limbs are long, they take long to retract. Louis chuckles. It’s that easy.

They order in Indian and sit on opposite ends of an equally ski-able sofa eating their curries, sounds of the TV blaring blurrily between them. Harry gets green curry on his white shirt, and it’s definitely funnier than a very disgruntled Harry thinks it to be. Then Louis sits back, fingers laced over his full tummy, as Harry means to pop the cork on the champagne. “Dangerous business,” Louis narrates, sinking lower and lower on the couch as if that might save him from being decapitated. In the end, the cork shoots off into the central chandelier, clinks a few crystals on its arc toward the floor. Louis applauds politely as Harry fist-pounds, then gets foam all over the floor filling their flutes.

Harry finds _The Hangover_ unusually entertaining. He’s laughed twice with his tongue out. Louis just thinks that the bubbles go to his head fast. He’s crawled over to Harry’s end of the C-shaped sofa in hopes of gaining a foot massage out of the journey, but Harry’s hands are occupied as he drinks his champagne with his pinkie up like a right prick, so Louis slings his arm along the couch behind Harry’s head, tucks his bare toes under Harry’s spread thigh for warmth.

Louis’ eyes are slipping shut as the credits roll, and _The Hangover Part II_ is set to come on next, when Harry shifts beside him. Louis hears the clink of his glass on the coffee table, and then feels the nuzzle of Harry’s warm cheek against the soft inner of his bicep. He lifts a single eyelid to see Harry’s nosing in there, mouthing the skin sloppily, biting it. He does this to everyone. Louis doesn’t bat an eye, not until Harry’s teeth really sink in and he hisses a breath through his teeth. He promptly smacks Harry on the back of the head. Harry only looks drunk and lazily happy as he sits back, a thin string of spit snapping between his pinked lips and the shiny, reddish blotch on Louis’ arm.

“Twat,” Louis mutters, then bends his arm to examine it. Harry licks his elbow, and Louis flicks him on the tip of the nose. “Fucking vampire fucking twat.”

Harry lifts his shoulders, shrugging innocently enough, or then it’s his dimple that gives him that perpetual air of innocence. Either way, Louis scoffs and clambers onto Harry’s lap, which must take him by surprise because Harry’s hands fly out to grapple onto the couch as if there’s a chance he could fall off it like it’s a capsizing boat.

“Let’s see, then,” Louis says thoughtfully, thighs astride Harry’s lap, as his fingertip traces an aimless path along the side of Harry’s neck.

“See what?” Harry asks as he pats the tops of Louis’ thighs, beams up at him. The smile is wiped from his face as Louis forces his head away to make room to bite down on the column of his neck.

Harry squawks like only Harry can, but he’s pliant as Louis sinks his teeth into the skin over a tendon, rolls it gently between his teeth. Harry’s fingers dig into the soft bits at Louis’ hips and he whines in protest, so Louis bites harder.

“Why?” huffs Harry, his head drooping against the cushion.

“Revenge,” Louis explains, and as he runs his fingers into Harry’s hair, he knots them there to keep Harry down. Once he’s decided his lovebite is vengeful enough, he releases Harry, pats him cordially on the cheek, and slips onto the sofa again.

“S’dripping,” Harry complains, wiping at his neck with the back of his hand. Louis just snickers, crawls to the sofa’s opposite end to lay back against the armrest.

Louis doesn’t know how long it’s been — unless there’s some kind of battle-action going on, he can’t stay awake through movies for shit — when he feels his legs shift apart by force, and then the heaviest, warmest weight settle against his chest. Louis’ eyes blink open to curls in his face, curls he has to blow raspberries to spit out of his mouth, as Harry’s chin digs into his shoulder and his arms tighten around Louis’ waist.

“Needy,” Louis mutters, then shuts his eyes again, because not even Bradley Cooper on the TV can convince him to keep them open.

“Mmm,” says Harry.

And Harry’s like a bloody heated blanket. He only makes it easier to doze off.

Until Harry starts to shift. Nose along Louis’ chest, breath warming the fabric over Louis’ nipple. Graze teeth against his collarbone. Smudge his lips against the base of Louis’ neck.

Louis’ brows draw together, but it’s just a Harry thing. Him being a vampire twat, and all.

Harry sucks on his skin. Louis chuckles, because Harry’s peach fuzz tickles Louis’ skin. He pets the back of Harry’s head.

Harry starts breathing heavier, though. His big puppy-paw hand gets a hold of the other side of Louis’ neck, and Louis quietly says, “Harold,” but Harry just hums, moves so his weight’s on his knees, so he’s got one of Louis’ thighs bracketed between his own. He bears down against Louis’ thigh, breath going heady and thick. It’s like the temperature of the room goes up, and the temperature of the air between them, too, and Louis wants to pretend like he doesn’t know what’s going on but he does and he’s ambivalent but Harry is… he’s precious. He’s precious to Louis, and the mewl-like noise he makes sends heat zinging down Louis’ throat, down to his stomach. He wonders how many bubbles are in Harry’s head by now, marvels that Harry can seemingly get off on… just putting his mouth on Louis’ skin like this.

It’s when Harry pulls his head back, eyes in a tipsy-hazy-glaze, and tilts it imploringly, teeth catching on his lower lip as he whispers, “Get me off,” that Louis checks out of his subconscious and meets Harry’s eyes. Harry’s… _sizable_ erection is heating Louis’ thigh. “Please,” Harry adds, and then his head falls heavily to Louis’ shoulder. “ _Please_ , Lou.”

 _Needy_ , Louis doesn’t say that time. Instead, Louis acts on… he can’t say instinct, he’s never fucking done this before. _Something_. After a breath of hesitation, _something_ compels him to hold his hand to his mouth, drip a glob of spit into his palm (Harry sees, groans), reach between their bodies (Harry’s thin t-shirt sticks to his skin, sweat-damp), press his hand, fingers curled, between Harry’s soft stomach and the waistband of his joggers (Harry’s gone commando, naturally), and uncurl his fingers to wrap them around the twitching length of… of Harry’s cock. Louis swallows hard.

Harry keens, unfettered, like he can’t keep his mouth shut now, though he tries to still mouth at Louis’ neck. _Precious_.

Louis’ hand slides in wet jerks over Harry’s cock. His saliva mixes with the precome that burbles from Harry’s tip, and it’s _so_ wet, Harry’s so wet, as if this isn’t just a tipsy fumble on a sofa at home.

In their home.

Harry’s gasp is strained, laboured, heavenly when he climaxes, creams his fucking joggers, makes a mess of Louis’ hand. Harry’s breathing slows from erratic to even as he pets his knuckles up and down the side of Louis’ neck. Louis doesn’t even move his hand, just stares at the wall beyond, at the crystalline flecks of light cast onto raw brick by the chandelier.

Then Louis clears his throat. “‘M gonna,” he starts, then shifts, hand cupped as not to let the sticky pool in his palm drip, “er, toilet.”

Harry says nothing, then breathes in through his nose, shifting his limbs to free Louis. “Right.”

Louis climbs off the sofa, shuffles to the toilet near the front door. He switches the lights on with his elbow, turns both knobs on the faucet with his left hand, lets the rushing water run over his palms and wash everything down the drain.

He startles when he looks into the mirror in front of him and Harry’s there, behind him, hanging off the doorframe, a greenish curry stain near the collar of his top, a red bruise just above it on his neck, a wet spot at the crotch of his low-slung joggers, fringe mussed and eyelids heavy against the wideness of his eyes. His lips are pressed tight, though, and his hands grip both sides of the doorframe.

Louis resents him for his beauty. Then he pumps soap into his hand, lets the water run while he scrubs his palms together.

“Lou,” utters Harry.

Louis lifts his brows, but he’s looking down at the sink now, rinsing his hands. “Hm?”

“Is this.” Silence, the shifting of weight. “Is this gonna be weird?” The sound of Harry’s hand clapping against his face, the drag of skin on skin. “Fuck. I made it weird.”

A corner of Louis’ lips twitches. “It’s not weird, babe.”

“Fuck. It _is_. I _came_ on your _hand_.” Harry groans, then whimpers, more agonised than sexy this time. “I’m sorry I came on your hand.”

Louis laughs lightly at the sheer bizarreness of the apology. “You’ll make it weird if you start crying on me.”

Through the mirror, he looks at Harry, who has his eyes fixed on the floor, reddish like he _might_ just start sniffling, brows in a stubborn furrow. Louis isn’t ready for it when he lifts his gaze to meet Louis’ through the mirror, and nearly flinches away like he’s embarrassed to have been caught looking. But… this is Harry. What reason has he to be embarrassed?

Louis reconsiders the question in this context.

“I feel like,” Harry says, hands curled into fists on the doorframe. “I feel like I should — can I kiss you?”

Louis chokes on his laugh that time, turns off the faucet. “That’d. That’d make it weird. For certain.”

Harry grimaces, seemingly not at Louis but at himself, then steps up to curl his big hands over Louis’ shoulders, lay his forehead to the topmost knob of Louis’ spine. “Okay.”

Louis grips the edge of the sink the way Harry grips him. “Go drink some water.”

Harry sighs. “Okay.”

“And wash up.”

“Okay.” Harry’s fingers dig in. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

* * *

_December 2011_

They have a show tonight.

Louis’ alone in the dressing room, slumped on the sofa, knees draw up close to his chest as, between them, he plays this or that bird game on his phone. There’s too many of them, fucking bird games. He just happens to be quite good at this one, so he’s deemed it superior to the other bird games.

He doesn’t look up when he hears the door open, in case it’s Lou come to plaster his hair across his forehead with hairspray, and he might get away with the whole _they can’t see you if you don’t move_ thing that he never gets away with.

But unless Lou’s speedily grown her arm hair in thicker and switched out her perfume for something Louis reckons is Tom Ford… it’s not her.

“Hi,” Harry says in his ear, arms sliding in around Louis’ shoulders from behind, linking across his chest.

Louis wrinkles his nose, because Harry’s made him lose. “What, babe,” he mumbles, starting up a new game.

Harry sighs real deep, stretches out his arms so his stupid wrist bumps Louis’ phone, knocks it out of his grip. “I just —”

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis admonishes as he swipes his phone from the floor. “Bastard.” He has to unlock it again, in plain sight of Harry, but Harry knows his password anyway.

Harry’s arms are back in a flash, heavy and laying across Louis’ chest. He doesn’t apologise, has no regrets, apparently, for the setbacks he’s caused Louis. “Can we do that… that thing again?”

Louis frowns. He ought to clean out his phone, which he realises when he has trouble locating the bird app again. “What thing?”

Harry pinches Louis’ nipple through his tee in punishment.

Louis’ head whips around so their faces are very close. “What was that for?”

Harry’s frowning. “Don’t play dumb,” he says softly.

Louis squints. “You’re dumb.”

“Shut up,” says Harry, unfazed. Then, looking back and forth between the two of Louis’ eyes, he adds, quietly, “I wanna touch you.”

Louis considers him, blinks, then turns so he’s sitting the right way around on the sofa again. “Harry, what…”

And then Harry’s palm makes its way down Louis’ chest, over the soft bit of his tummy until he’s got Louis’ crotch cupped in his palm. He rolls the heel of his hand down, and Louis’ hearing turns to static and the air in his lungs expands into a solid as Harry sighs into the back of his neck, “I never got to last time.”

When Louis drops his head back, brows pinched, Harry is grinning. It’s because he’s winning, and he knows it.

But Louis’ just thinking: _I didn’t think this was going to become a thing_.

He could so easily laugh this off, pretend that time at home had been a drunken mistake (he’d hardly had any champagne) and gently enforce the concept of _boundaries_. Or just turn around and sock Harry across the jaw.

But Louis knows how to get what he wants. And he decides, looking at the outline of Harry’s hand against his trousers, feeling his hot breath against his neck, that this is something he wants.

There’s no toilet connected to the dressing room, so he and Harry slip out to wander the unknown halls of the arena. Harry strolls with casual slowness, like there’s nothing clandestine about this at all, and Louis smacks him on the arse to urge him to speed up. There’s less than an hour until showtime, he knows, and people — _Paul_ , namely — will come looking for them if they seem to have vanished off the face of the Earth. Louis might push their wranglers a bit, always dangerously close to showtime, but he’s relatively responsible, as in he knows just how dangerously close it is.

Harry shoves him through the door of a men’s toilet, and Louis glares at him murderously, because pushing him around like that demands permission, _okay_. Harry peers under every stall, even violently kicks one open like a bounty hunter in a movie — which, _ha, ha,_ Louis does indulge him with a chuckle — then waves Louis over into the largest one, the accessible stall at the end of the row.

Louis follows him in at a leisurely pace, though that’s out the window as Harry locks the stall and crowds him into the wall, hands closing over Louis’ hips like he’s thought about this.

Like he’s thought about this. Louis knows he must have — it’s been months since they’ve done anything like this. He didn’t even know Harry _wanted_ to do anything like this again. And he’s tempted to ask why, but he thinks just knowing that Harry’s been thinking about it, about Louis’ body, about touching him, reciprocating… it gets him hot.

He wishes it didn’t.

“You want this?” Harry asks quietly, needing the confirmation.

 _This_. The definition of _this_ is ambiguous. But Louis’ got a semi now, just from Harry squeezing him down there, from their haste through the halls. From knowing. _There’s at least one part of me that wants it_ , he thinks comically. Then he nods, quick, breath held.

Harry smiles at him, faint and close-lipped but enough to dent his cheek. He untucks Louis’ striped shirt and pops the button on his red trousers and Louis’ still in a mild state of incredulity, so he leans backward into the wall, laces his fingers behind his neck, watches Harry’s face. His pupils are blown — it makes Louis think of all the fan theories, the ones about Harry being coked out all the time, but this is just… this is just _Harry_ , he knows it — and his lip’s trapped underneath his teeth. Louis pointedly doesn’t look at Harry’s hands, but he fucking plays himself because then Harry licks his palm and it’s obscene, the way he doesn’t just tongue a stripe across it but gets it wet, actually wet, dipping his tongue into the spaces between his fingers. With his other hand, he touches Louis through his briefs.

Louis sucks in a ragged breath, stares at the _H_ insignia on Harry’s blazer until everything else goes blurry.

Harry palms the shape of Louis’ cock through the thin fabric. Then whispers, “Can I?” as he carefully lays his forehead to Louis’.

Louis’ hands are still behind his head, and thank fuck for that. “Mhm.” It’s faint, weak. Will be fucking _embarrassing_ , probably, when he thinks about it later that night.

Harry pulls Louis’ briefs down, gets his hand on his cock.

 _Harry’s hand is on his cock._ Louis’ hands slip from behind his neck to cover his face, his hot, hot cheeks, because he _likes_ it and yet —

“Harry,” he says urgently, and it’s worse because he’s sweating now, and Harry’s stroking him slowly, “is this, are you doing this because — er, we never really talked about it, after that time at home, and we’d both been drinking, and I felt like I was — I _felt_ , like — I was. I was taking advantage —”

Harry wraps fingers around Louis’ left wrist, draws it away from his face. Stubbornly, Louis opens an eye. “Lewis,” he whispers evenly, smiling like a fool. “Please shut up.”

Breathlessly, Louis chuckles, though he can’t quite get his head around this.

Harry releases his wrist, pins his hand to Louis’ shoulder as if Louis might simply leave this wall any time soon. Louis looks at him, then, follows Harry’s gaze down to where he’s pumping his cock. His breaths have gone raspy, both of theirs have. Louis feels for a grip on the wall and doesn’t find one. Harry tucks his forehead into Louis’ shoulder, nosing in like a dog, until he clamps his teeth down on Louis’ shoulder through the fabric.

“Harry!” Louis breathes, indignant, but that’s just _it_ , it’s a breath. Harry thumbs over the head of his cock, shifts the angle of his wrist. Louis’ unsure he’ll be able to look, straight-faced, at Harry holding a microphone ever again. Then Harry’s other hand travels down from his shoulder to squeeze at Louis’ waist, push his shirt up his belly. Where have his witticisms gone? His head’s run dry. It’d be a pity, a disgrace if he weren’t so distracted.

“Want it in my mouth,” Harry says, gravelly and drunken, mouth dampening a spot on his top, and Louis’ brows pinch together and his eyes squeeze shut tight.

Louis can’t. Not much longer. He begins, tension evident in his voice, “Harry, love, just a gentle warning that I’m — I’m ‘bout to blow my fucking load all over your nice jacket —”

“It’s okay,” Harry asserts. With his head still on Louis’ shoulder, he gets both his hands around Louis’ cock.

That’s how Louis comes. Blunt nails digging at a tiled wall, gasping for breath. He doesn’t get a drop on himself. It’s all over Harry’s hands. A bit on Harry’s jeans, too.

Louis counts the seconds that follow from behind the blackness of his eyelids. Then he straightens, tucks himself into his briefs, and snatches up a wad of toilet paper.

“Whoa,” Harry says in the meantime. He’s looking at his hands dubiously. There’s a brief moment in which Louis thinks he’ll do something excessively pornographic, and he — he _has_ to intervene, doesn’t need concrete bloody visuals, so he steps toward Harry with the toilet paper. But Harry retreats defensively, all the way until his back hits the opposite side of the stall. He frowns at the thud his body makes, but then he says, “Just… let me,” and slides his come-slick hand into his low-hanging trousers. It takes three pumps of his wrist to bring himself off.

Louis doesn’t even realise he’s seen Harry’s o-face until it’s already fading from his features. He has other things on his mind, like the fact that Harry’s a mess and — he checks his phone — they have twenty minutes until they’re due onstage.

“That was gross,” he says, nodding at Harry and doing up his own trousers.

“It was hot,” Harry argues. Then his nose crinkles. He’s still got one hand in his pants, his other awkwardly poised, and a wet spot is forming on his crotch. He looks up with mild panic. “I’m gonna need new pants.”

* * *

_February 2012_

Harry doesn’t wait another eight months to climb into Louis’ bunk, nearly naked and bedroom-eyed.

And the lads aren’t oblivious.

It’s probably why one evening, when Harry’s out with Zayn and Louis’ playing FIFA against Niall on the bus (Liam’s asleep on the sofa beside him, on account of a massive losing streak that’d permanently lost him his controller to Louis), Niall clears his throat, mid-shoving his hand into a crisp bag to scrape up whatever residue’s at the bottom, and asks, “So… you and Harry’re doing the do now?”

Louis stares resolutely at the screen. Five seconds later, he decides to pause the game. He looks at Niall. Liam gives a soft snore.

“Niall…”

“You bumpin’ uglies?” Niall licks salty crisp crumbs from his fingers. “Makin’ the beast with two backs? Plantin’ the parsnip?”

“ _Niall_.”

“Releasin’ the kraken?” Niall lifts the bag so he can pour the crumbs into his open mouth. “Openin’ the gates of Mordor? Havin’ hot pudd —”

Louis swipes the bag from his hands, crumples it up. Frankly, there have been no dicks entering arses yet (perhaps there will never be) but he’s not telling Niall that. “You’re quite finished, I think. And no more internet for you, if you’re going to use up your data looking at sex euphemisms.”

Niall grins at him, bits of food trapped in his braces. “No, _Harry’s_ quite finished, finishes two seconds after he climbs in your —”

Louis slumps on the sofa. “Niall.”

“Lou.” Niall wipes his palm off on his joggers. “I just want a _yes_.”

Louis nibbles on his lip. “Yeah.” He shrugs. “But it’s — yeah. It’s not serious.”

Niall nods, expression gone grave. “Okay.” Then he sets down the controller, laces his fingers together in his lap, like they’re about to have _the talk_ or chat about Niall’s late grandmother. “Is it weird? You guys seem… the same. Like, normal.”

Louis’ eyes flit to him, then away, to the screen that’s suddenly blinding after peering into Niall’s face in the dark. “Nah. It’d be weirder if…” _If we actually talked about it. If there were feelings involved._ Louis shrugs again. “I don’t know. It’s just not that weird. I’m gay. Harry’s — a little gay, probably. Isn’t weird.”

“If it makes you feel better, I thought you guys were secretly doing it in the X-Factor house.” Niall opens up another bag of crisps — Sour Cream and Onion, which has Louis shuddering.

Louis doesn’t acknowledge any part of that other than, “Don’t say _doing it_. You sound ten.”

“ _Doingitdoingitdoingitdoingitdoingitdoingitdoingitdoingitdoingit_ …”

Three minutes later, the game is unpaused. Louis’ winning. Niall says, “So you wash your hands after you touch Harry’s dick, yeah?”

He’s mid-horrific cackle-laugh when Louis scores the winning goal. “Suck on that, Horan.”

Niall wipes tears from his eyes, throwing down his controller. “Fuckin’ hell, as if I’d have Harry’s sloppy seconds.”

* * *

_April 2012_

They’re in Sydney.

The show’s been a game of predator-prey, if anything. And yet Louis can’t quite figure out who’s who, between him and Harry.

The lights go down, the screams are deafening. Harry kicks the sixth bra off the stage as he blows the last of his kisses. They all stumble backstage. Liam’s sweaty arm is around Louis’ shoulders. Niall’s shoelace is undone and Zayn’s just about to warn him when he trips. Louis’ laughter rings down the hallway and he looks up toward the heavens as he says, “Thank you, God. I’ll remember that forever.”

“Fuck you, Tommo,” Niall says, but from the floor, so it’s pathetic.

“Louis.”

Louis stops cold, so Liam’s arm slides right over his head as he keeps walking. He looks for Harry, the source of the voice, finds he’s fallen what feels like a mile behind the rest of them. He’s stripped off his blazer, is just in his t-shirt now. Louis stands, waiting, as Harry approaches and walks right into Louis’ extended arm, which he coils round Harry’s waist. Harry’s arm settles across his shoulders.

“Hi,” murmurs Harry smilingly. His curls stick to his face at the temples and his eyes sparkle.

“Hi yourself.” Louis trains his eyes ahead, because he won’t have him and Harry toppling down to the floor.

“Mm.” The tip of Harry’s nose brushes his ear. He’s not doing anything about keeping his mouth off Louis’ skin, either, so his earlobe is already wet from the brush of Harry’s lower lip before he says, “You were flirting with me up there.” He smiles wider — Louis can’t see it, but he knows. “For everyone to see.”

Louis’ lips twitch but he’s strong, can hold his ground. “I don’t know who’s arse you’re pulling these false claims from.”

“Stop, you so were.”

Louis glances behind them. Only idling security in sight. The others have disappeared around the bend up ahead. “My behavior wasn’t out of the ordinary whatsoever.” His hand shifts on Harry’s waist, fingers sinking in. Then he meets Harry’s gaze. He doesn’t like feeling exposed, but he likes Harry’s closeness, the darkness of the deepest green parts of Harry’s eyes.

Harry smiles coyly. “I know what I saw, Lewis.” If Louis didn’t realise how close they were before, he does when Harry touches his nose to Louis’. “And I want you,” whispers Harry through a breath so heavy it warms Louis’ lips. “Please.”

Louis turns his head. The fuzzy heat’s already gone to his brain, made him feel out of control. He glances backward again, paranoid. But no one’s watching them. “Love,” he says gently, levelly, “not now. Can you wait ’til we’re on the bus? Just ’til we’re on the bus.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Harry’s getting pouty, skeptical. “How can I believe you?”

Without meeting Harry’s eyes, he turns so he’s able to press his lips to Harry’s shoulder, exhaling out his nose. His hand slips off Harry’s waist. He eyes the expanse of the hallway behind them as he presses his hand down the back of Harry’s trousers, runs a fingertip into the crack of Harry’s arse, grazes it slowly over his hole. “Because you trust me,” he mutters into Harry’s shirt.

Once his hand has found its home at Harry’s waist again, Louis lifts his head. Harry’s eyes are shut; it’s a wonder they haven’t tripped. He’s drawing a shaky breath through o-shaped lips. Louis smiles.

On the bus, Louis sits on the naked backs of Harry’s thighs as he fucks him with his fingers. Harry’s only facedown in the pillow as a quieting tactic, but somehow still, when he comes, he manages to punch his fist into the upper bunk. Above them, Niall shoots up in his bunk and shouts, “That’s it, that’s it, I’ve had enough — _stop the bus!_ ”

The bus motor is a steady, unfailing rumble.

Across the aisle and further up the bus, from behind the shut bunk curtains, Liam says wearily, “Don’t think you can call the shots on that, mate.”

“Why the fuck not?” Niall squawks.

Harry’s shifting beneath him in the dark. Louis’ neck aches from hunching over. But it’s worth it when Harry peeks at him over his shoulder, smiles toothily and mouths, “Oops.” It’s simultaneously sexy and really, really fucking adorable.

Louis bites his fist to stifle his laughter, and gives Harry’s bum a soft pat. Harry looks awfully satisfied as he lays his cheek down on the pillow, the dip of his dimple bathed in darkness.

“You literally choose that bunk every time, knowing full well what’ll happen,” says Liam. Still going, apparently.

There’s a thump as Niall sags back onto the mattress. “It’s my bunk,” he says, voice high. “Carved me bloody name on the ceiling up here.”

Louis knows he himself could bunk elsewhere, too, but it’s this one where he’s stuffed the lube between the mattress and the frame, and he can’t make the same mistake of sleeping elsewhere and Harry following, only for them to have peeled off all their clothes by the time they realise they’re without lube and for one of them to have to slip into the aisle and scrounge for it. No. Never again.

Louis crawls up the bunk, tugs the white hand towel from beneath Harry’s belly to wipe his fingers off on, throws it through the crack in the curtains into the aisle where he knows the next morning Zayn will obliviously trod on it after rolling out of bed and Niall will find it, pick it up tentatively (with a makeshift glove formed by wrapping his fingers up in his own clean underwear) and lay it across Louis’ pillow (or his face, should he still be in bed). After some urging, he’s managed to get Harry on his side — the bunks aren’t nearly big enough for side-by-side stomach-sleeping, much less with Harry’s breadth and excess of limbs — and he wraps his arm around Harry’s middle, tucks his knees into Harry’s.

* * *

_September 2012_

Louis is tipsy enough to be content and buzzing, the room spinning above him on a central axis, but not drunk enough to get melodramatic, he thinks. He can count the days left until the VMAs on two hands, almost one. The hotel they’re staying in is really quite nice. There had been chocolates on the pillows, and Louis had eaten them both. Not long ago, he’d deposited Niall One-Beer-Too-Many Horan in his room — or, rather, in the arms of a capable, trusty security guard, but… _details_ — had located the door his room key _actually_ works on after correctly deducing from a begrudging response to his own stream of annoying texts that if Liam’s is 1442 and Niall’s is 1446 (neither Zayn nor Harry would respond), that his must be 1444, and had promptly shucked off his trousers and unbuttoned the top few on his shirt. He’s not seen Harry or Zayn since this morning, and it sickens him a little to think about what that means.

Louis pats around for the remote and turns on the telly. No melodrama.

He’s startled out of a doze when there’s a knock on his door. It’s not a pounding Paul knock, though. Can’t be too urgent. Louis’ phone buzzes twice, then, but he ignores it, instead swings his legs off the bed and trudges past the TV, on which some weird cartoon is playing. The analog clock on the wall reads 2:02, if he’s seeing straight.

He gets on his tiptoes to peer through the peephole. Opposite the door, leaning into the wall and smiling down at the screen of his phone is Harry, curls in a messy sweep across his forehead.

Louis lugs the door open. He recalls he’s not wearing pants when Harry pockets his phone and gives him a leering once-over, and he rolls his eyes.

“You weren’t answering me,” Harry says, grabbing onto the doorframe for balance as he wanders into Louis’ room. _Without invitation_ , Louis thinks, eyeing Harry’s back as he lets the door swing shut.

“What?” Louis rubs his eyes. Harry’s standing by the table, inspecting the fruit bowl. Louis wishes the fruits were fake, but they aren’t, the hotel’s too posh.

“I was texting you.”

“Oh.” Louis traipses past him toward the bed. “I was sleeping.”

Harry chews on a banana as he says, “Wake you? Sorry.”

“S’fine.” Louis grunts as he heaves himself up onto the bed again, legs dangling, fingers the long hem of it absently. He stares at Harry, who teeters slightly, banana in hand. “Are you drunk?”

“Bit.” Then Harry smiles — the fruit’s gone, literally in thirty seconds — and tosses the peel into the bin. “Me an’ Zayn —”

“Oh, lovely.”

Harry doesn’t quite grasp the abrasiveness of Louis’ interruption. “It was actually… actually really funny.” He perches on the mattress next to Louis. Louis can feel his warmth already, even more when Harry sets his hands on the mattress, one behind Louis’ back, and leans back into them. “The girls, he — Zayn told one of ‘em to tell anyone who asked that she was Crystabel.” He chuckles. “They had to, like. Get past the crowd outside, and shit.”

Louis would rather look at the floor, anywhere but Harry’s slack, sweet, sated face. “Did they make it up here?”

“Mhm.”

Louis nibbles at his cuticle. “You have a good time?”

“Yeah.” Then Harry’s hand is on Louis’ lower back, warm and sprawling across the skin beneath his shirt. Harry kisses his shoulder, the corner of his jaw. “You look good.”

“Thank you.” Louis bats Harry’s hand off, turns over to crawl to the side of the bed nearer to the wall. He sits cross-legged, rubbing his palms together, then looks Harry’s way. “Did you kiss her?”

“Did I —?” Harry turns, shifts into the spot beside Louis. “Of course I did.” He smiles, confused, like it’s a silly question. “I kiss everyone.” _Except me, of course_. “It’s just. Kissing is just kissing.”

Louis watches Harry bite his lip, cover Louis’ knee with his palm and squeeze. His eyes are dark, his smile lazy. Apparently the girl — _girls_ , Louis thinks resentfully — weren’t enough for him. Slowly, like he’s torturing, teasing himself, Harry walks his fingers to his own crotch. “Are you up —?”

Louis’ laugh cuts him off. “I don’t want your dick anywhere near me if it had her mouth on it.”

Harry catches the tone that time, thankfully. He’s far from stupid. “Lou.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re about to bargain with me.”

“Lou, babe.” It sounds like the start of a bargain. The line between Harry’s brows is deep.

“Fucking hell. Don’t touch me.” Louis pulls his knees to his chest, then decidedly rolls over so he’s laid on his side, facing the wall. “I’d like it if you left now, Harry, please.”

He doesn’t feel the mattress shift, but he does hear Harry swallow. “Hey, I’m sorry…” Harry trails off. Probably because there’s nothing he can say, probably because he has no idea what he should be apologising for. Louis can’t say he knows, either. Suddenly Louis is very warm as Harry huddles close, fits himself to Louis’ back and kisses the back of his neck. He rubs Louis’ upper arm, too. It feels so nice Louis could cry — so nice he can’t bear to push Harry away.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, and Louis can feel the shape of Harry’s words on his neck, making all the little hairs stand on end. “I didn’t mean… I was just thinking about you. Been thinking about you all night. All day.”

“Fuck off,” Louis whispers back, not nearly vehemently enough.

They lay in silence. Louis stares at the wall. He thinks Harry might be asleep at some point, but that’s when both of Harry’s hands start to stroke over his waist, sneak around to unbutton his shirt so Harry can ruck it all the way up, paint his hands along Louis’ bare skin.

“Tell me to stop,” Harry murmurs. He plants kisses on Louis’ neck, at the top of his spine and squirms down the mattress to continue them where his back is bare. Harry’s fingers squeeze the soft dip of Louis’ waist. He scrapes his teeth over a knob in Louis’ spine. “Tell me to stop,” he repeats, nosing in and breathing hotly.

“No,” whispers Louis.

Harry’s hands go still. Then he must shift up onto his elbow, because his voice is louder, less muffled, and there’s a shadow cast over Louis’ face. “That’s not the same as ‘stop’.”

Louis looks at the beige of the wall. Turns his cheek further into the pillow. “I know,” he says, and makes sure Harry hears.

Harry just breathes a while, motionless where he half-hovers above Louis, fingertips stroking circles on his tummy. Then he takes Louis’ hand, kisses the back of it, and rolls Louis over onto his front by the hips.

Louis doesn’t know which path this is heading down but when Harry starts to peel his briefs off, Louis helps, lifting his hips and pushing them down himself. The pads of Harry’s fingers are both soft and roughened as he strokes his palms over the swell of Louis’ arse, down the backs of his thighs and back up again. The mattress bounces under Harry’s shifting weight. Louis presses his face into the pillow. Harry kneads Louis’ arse with one hand, takes Louis’ ankle with the other, presses a gentle kiss to the curve of bone there. He kisses the top of Louis’ foot, too, and its arch. Louis would kick him in the face if it didn’t twinge his heart so.

There isn’t an inch of skin between Louis’ waist and his toes that Harry’s mouth doesn’t touch. They’ve never talked about doing what Harry does to him, either; he just starts tentatively, continues when Louis cranes his hand back to pet Harry’s head, keens like it’s the little death of him. Harry spreads Louis’ cheeks with warm, warm hands, licks over and into him until Louis’ rocking back into Harry’s face, onto his tongue, until every time he squeezes his eyes shut tight enough, wetness seeps from their corners onto his cheeks, onto the pillow. Harry laves at him (his cheeks and chin are so wet and messy that they catch the light when Louis glances backward just once) and strokes him until he comes apart on the sheets.

Harry pants as he draws back. Louis tries to curl into a ball, but Harry doesn’t let him, crawls over him while he wipes his face with the back of his hand and detangles Louis from his impractical shirt. Harry works around Louis to get the top layer of covers off the bed, then tucks him in under the comforter. Louis knows Harry’s hard just from the way he’s breathing. He expects Harry to disappear completely when he goes away, but Louis hears the distant sounds of bumbling in the bathroom; the faucet running, the shower running for about as long as Louis thinks it would take for Harry to get off, the toilet flushing. The lights go out when the bathroom door opens, and the mattress dips behind Louis as Harry, warm with skin dewy and steamy, falls asleep on his back on top of the covers.

* * *

_September 2012_

They win three VMAs. It’s madness.

Then they’re on a plane home.

Louis can only surmise that it must be the culminating result of him not speaking to Harry in the days leading up to the award show, nor at the award show, nor at the after party, when Liam and Niall shack up in adjacent seats in first class, and Zayn takes the aisle seat beside Paul, puts on his headphones, and falls asleep before the plane makes it to the runway.

So the remaining two seats are left for Harry and Louis.

Louis takes the window. It’s not like he’s been passive aggressive, anyway, which is big for him. He’s just been evasive. Harry has plenty of people to talk to (not to mention shag) and if Louis isn’t one of them for a matter of days, the world will absolutely not end.

It did slightly feel like a personal apocalypse, though, when Louis had woken up the morning after Zayn and Harry’s Crystabel shite to Harry snoring in bed beside him and realised his own… well, melodrama.

In the air, Harry doesn’t try to break the silence, or breach the wall between their seats. Instead he reads poetry.

Of course.

Louis naps for the first two hours of the flight. Then he stares out the window awhile, but the sky is purely black and there’s few twinkling cities to look at, so he’s brisk about getting up, stepping over Harry’s fucking giraffe legs and heading for the toilet.

He’s been in the toilet for two minutes when there’s a fucking knock on the door, which. Louis’ flown a lot since the whole band thing picked up, and this has never once happened to him. It’s locked, and clearly so, for fuck’s sake. He stares at the door, lets the water run in the tiny sink. “Occupied, sorry,” he says, but then there’s another knock. “Jesus, would you wait for _just_ —”

When Louis slides the door open, Harry’s on the other side, and he practically fights his way in, pressing Louis backward by the chest so he’s able to stuff himself into the minuscule toilet with Louis _and_ lock the door behind him.

“Harry, what the _fuck_ ,” Louis gripes, because he stumbles and has to catch himself on the sink counter, if one could even call it that. “You do realise this thing is, like, one square fucking foot. I don’t even think there’s enough oxygen in here for both of us to breathe right.”

“Shh,” Harry hushes softly, holding up his hands, and Louis thinks _the audacity_. He blocks the entire doorway, so Louis’ forced to stare at him. The toilet isn’t even wide enough that Louis could manage a sneaky escape maneuver between Harry’s legs. And in the greenish fluorescent light, Harry is sleepy-looking and darling.

“I don’t think you fully understand how concerning it is that you felt you had to trap me in here against my will,” Louis murmurs, staring at the wall. And he doesn’t want to sit down on the toilet cover like an idiot, so he’s practically in Harry’s personal bubble without any intention of being there. “Might be verging on psychopathy, my friend —”

“Louis.”

Louis closes his eyes, because he knows that tone. He hugs himself. “What.”

Harry sighs, long and deep, and Louis wishes the cogs in his brain would turn a bit faster, please. “I’ve been… I’ve been thinking about why I’ve felt so — so _ill_ since that night. That night at the hotel.”

Louis could take a stab at Harry’s lacking specificity, because _there have been_ many _nights at_ many _hotels, Harold, your inner shitty storyteller is showing_ , but instead he says, “Have you considered the fact that you put your mouth on my arse that night? I can’t say I’ve thoroughly researched it in any way other than watching porn, but I also can’t vouch for the illnesses you might contract from, you know, sucking on someone’s arsehole. Not just mine, but _anyone’s_ , for that matter.”

Harry’s chuckle is genuine, but with a peeved edge. “I don’t mean physically ill. I mean… yes, also physically ill, but because the mentality starts to have this toll on me…” Harry’s brow creases, and Louis wants to smooth it out, but his hands are unmoving, tucked into his armpits. “I just mean off. I’ve felt off.”

Louis lifts his eyebrows, blinks a few times. “Okay.”

Harry’s lips are pink and pouty, though he isn’t pouting. They just _are_ that way, and it’s infuriating. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“For soliciting sexual favours first from your — your groupies, then crawling to me not long after to demand the same? Yeah, that’s a bit gross, Harry.”

“ _No_ ,” Harry says, fervent. “Or — yeah. For that, too. I’m sorry for that, obviously. I am. But I just, er. I mean.” Harry reaches for him, then, fitting his hands to Louis’ cheeks.

Louis continues to eye the wall.

“You didn’t deserve that,” whispers Harry.

Louis smiles bitterly. “Oh, didn’t I? I don’t recall you owing me anything. You don’t, actually. Not really. You can even have your apology back, if you’d like it, considering we never agreed —”

“We should’ve.”

Louis’ mouth goes a bit dry. It’s hard to swallow, what with Harry’s thumb caressing slowly over his cheek.

“I think we should’ve,” Harry says again, quiet. “I want to.”

Louis thinks about their flat, about the tidbits force-fed and gobbled up by the press about them moving apart, about the house Harry’s actually bought on Hampstead Heath.

He thinks about how much it hurts him, knowing Harry isn’t his but how it sometimes feels so much like he is, how it’s felt that way from the very beginning.

Then Harry’s up in his space, cradling Louis’ face and tilting it back so he can kiss him, featherlight, while Louis’ eyes first fall shut and then go wide.

He shoves Harry off away, so hard he’s almost regretful when Harry’s back hits the wall audibly.

Harry looks panicked.

Louis says, “I can’t do this here,” and leaves him in the toilet.

He puts his seat all the way back and curls up. He’s able to count to two hundred before he hears Harry settle into the seat adjacent.

When they land at Heathrow, the others look hopeful. But Louis is able to deduce from the sparse glances he steals at Harry that he has that _look_ on, the quasi-frown, concentrated, introspective look. Liam rolls his eyes. Niall attempts to look unbothered but clearly isn’t.

Louis and Harry get in a car together. It’s a few hours past noon but the tinted windows make it feel like twilight. Harry spends the whole ride over on his phone, likely informing all his favourite Londonites of his grand return. Louis estimates it’s within twenty-four hours Harry that will have managed to track down Nick Grimshaw.

Arriving home means the silent ferrying of luggage to the door. Harry shoulders Louis’ extra carryon, like he always does, and unlocks the door, because he’s designated key-sitter. Inside, it feels cold and cavernous and colorless. Louis makes a beeline for the thermostat, leaving his bags and shoes in a heap by the door.

“It’s so fucking cold,” Louis hisses, squinting at the thermostat as he cranks the temperature up to 32, though logically he knows it’ll heat up as fast as if he just set it to 21 with the crucial difference that he’ll eventually boil.

“Lou,” Harry says from somewhere behind him.

“So fucking cold. My balls’re literally shriveled up inside my body right now, like fucking raisins. We should pay someone to come by a few hours before we get back, turn the heat on.”

Then he’s trapped. Harry’s got his arms around him, tight, _actually_ tight, and though Louis can’t complain about warmth now, he can complain about Harry, stupid, precious Harry who accosts him in tiny toilets and doesn’t yell like Louis wishes he would but instead kisses him.

Louis almost whimpers at the fact that they had their first — _only_ — kiss in a British Airways toilet.

“Get _off_ me.” Louis writhes in his arms, kicks at Harry’s shins, bites at his arm, but Harry doesn’t budge.

“Calm down,” he says lowly.

“I would if you’d geroff,” Louis grouses. “How many times do I have to ask you? Let me _go_.”

“Stop fighting,” Harry pleads.

“You fucker.” Louis tries to head-butt him with the back of his head, but Harry dodges it somehow. He doesn’t break Harry Styles’ million dollar nose, and it upsets him.

He goes still in Harry’s arms. He’s surprised to feel them loosen, surprised when he misses their heavy, warm pressure, surprised when instead of running and hiding like the child he’s behaved like for days now, he turns in Harry’s arms and forces his face into his chest and wraps himself around Harry.

Fingers sift through the back of Louis’ hair. Harry’s breathing is calm, measured. And his arms are tight again, the way Louis likes. Louis might feel his own lip start to quiver, but he rubs his nose into Harry’s shirt, breathes him in, his cologne and his skin and the musk of air travel, cups the lower curve of Harry’s back with his hands.

Harry stops holding him to massage his fingertips into Louis’ shoulders. He feels Harry’s hot mouth at the top of his head, against his temple.

“Don’t fight,” Harry whispers. His hands hold Louis’ neck like they might fuse with his skin.

Louis doesn’t want to come out from his hiding spot, where it’s warm and Harry-scented and he’s protected from everything in the world but the most important part. But he’s avoided Harry for days now, and he misses just _looking_ at him, staring at him, soaking in him, reveling in his light, indulgent and greedy because he gets to see Harry at his best and his middling and his worst and he loves him in every form and mood and state. But he must love it most of all when Harry’s here, with him, because every second he’s not, Louis wishes he were.

The soles of Louis’ feet fully connect with the floor as he leans backward, relieves Harry of his weight. He tilts his head back to look Harry in the face. The lights aren’t on and the curtains are shut from their trip but Louis sees him still. He swallows against Harry’s hold on his neck, and rises onto his toes to hover where their noses touch, where Harry’s breath tingles over his lower lip, where Harry’s glassy eyes blur into one in his vision.

It’s when Harry smiles in his periphery, scoffing out some kind of airy, muted laugh, that Louis’ hesitation cracks and he presses forward into his smile, kisses his upper lip and his chin until Harry responds, so quick. _I don’t want to fight._ Louis’ hands fasten to Harry’s shoulders and when their lips touch, it’s dry and shallow until Harry scrapes nails over his neck and then drops his arms to gather Louis up, get Louis’ legs around his waist.

As soon as Harry’s weight pins Louis into the wall beside the thermostat, his mouth parts pliantly for Louis. Louis knots fingers into Harry’s curls, suckles on Harry’s lower lip, sinks his tongue into Harry’s mouth. He can feel the tension ripple through Harry, starting from the low groan in his throat, down to the flex of his fingers on Louis’ thighs and the slide of his foot against the floor.

Louis pets Harry’s fringe from his face as he hums around his tongue. Then he says, “Upstairs.”

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Harry, he just doesn’t trust his agility or multi-tasking abilities, particularly while handling someone of Louis’ weight. So Louis doesn’t distract Harry or try to blind him with his own face as Harry very diligently carries him up the stairs.

“Well done, you,” Louis commends at the top of the stairs, and Harry almost makes as if to throw him back down them, which isn’t funny at all but has Harry cracking up. He stops, though, when he realises he can’t be laughing if he wants a snog.

When they tumble into Harry’s bed, all Louis wants is to hold him, kiss him until the end of time or the end of the world or the end of his life, whichever comes last. Harry’s skin against his sheets is his new favourite palette and Louis wants him painted across the bed, wants to bite the skin of his tummy and slide inside of him and lose his breath under Harry’s weight.

He comes on Harry’s face and thinks it’s dirtier than the time Harry’d wanked himself using Louis’ spunk. Harry licks away what he can, then washes it off because _spots_ and by then Louis’ hard enough to open him up and fuck him proper.

Louis curls around him after. Harry’s kissing Louis’ knuckles, lacing their fingers together when he asks, “Is it weird now?”

Louis chuckles into Harry’s shoulder, then groans, “Yeah. It’s awful. Unbearable. Sorry I came on your face, love. Won’t be able to survive the weird.”

Harry cackles, arches back into Louis. “I would’ve kissed you sooner if I’d known this was what _weird_ meant.”

Louis’ smile is faint. His eyes slip shut. “There’s no rush.”


End file.
